


been at this far too long

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Emails, M/M, Text Messages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eduardo learns how to argue with Mark, and Mark learns to be somewhat less of a jerk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	been at this far too long

**Author's Note:**

> _you felt the coming wave_   
>  _told me we’d all be brave_   
>  _you said you wouldn’t flinch_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _but in the years that passed_  
>  _since I saw you last_  
>  _you haven’t moved an inch_
> 
>  
> 
> (Vampire Weekend, “Giving Up The Gun”)

When the invitation to Dustin’s wedding arrives, Eduardo tosses it onto the stack of mail on the dining room table that he’s planning on ignoring. It’s not until three weeks later, when he’s sorting things into recycling, that he finally opens it.

A note falls out. _Wardo - It would be awesome to see you, but I understand if you won’t. – PS, Sean isn’t going to be there._

He laughs first, because of course Dustin would be worried about putting him and Sean in a room together. Then he frowns, because - _Mark_.

He hasn’t seen Mark since the last day of depositions. Eduardo had gotten up and left the table when Gretchen had, and he hadn’t said goodbye. It’s been six months, and Eduardo can still recall with perfect clarity the way Mark had looked at him, sitting motionless at the table as Eduardo stood and walked out.

“It’s for the best, Eduardo,” Gretchen had said, once they were out in the hall and the glass doors had sealed Mark inside the room alone, with his laptop and his 150 million friends.

He’d stopped looking at Mark and focused on her. “Sorry, what’s that?”

“That you don’t have any more contact with Mr. Zuckerberg.” Gretchen shook his hand with a firm grip. “I’ll talk to you in a few days once the financials have been worked out.”

Eduardo had thanked her, probably without much conviction, and gone down to hail a cab.

He looks at the actual invitation for a moment. It’s more than a month away, towards the end of July, but the RSVP deadline is this coming Friday. Eduardo flips the RSVP card around between his fingers for a moment, then grabs a pen and checks the “attending” box, and that he’d like the fish.

On the back, though, he writes _Don’t hate me if I end up changing my mind._

*

For the service, he sits next to people he doesn’t know and who don’t know him, but when Mark sits down at his table after the plates had been cleared away at the reception dinner, he’s not entirely sure what to do. Dustin must have worked some seating arrangement magic for the tables, because Eduardo had been placed with some cousins of the bride who couldn’t care less who he was, or how much money he’d gotten in the settlement. But they’ve all decamped for the dance floor, leaving Eduardo alone with what’s left of the white wine that had been served with the salmon.

“Is it okay that I sit here?” Mark asks after nearly a minute, long enough that Eduardo has seriously contemplated getting up and walking away.

 _Fuck._ “It’s cool.”

“How - how are you?”

Eduardo’s not sure if Mark really wants to know, or if he’s just asking to ask. But Mark had never been one for meaningless small talk, so if he’s asking, it means he does want to hear the answer. “I’m, um. I’m good, I guess?”

“And how’s Singapore?”

“You know about that?” He doesn’t mean to say it that way, but this isn’t his first glass of wine. Mark just looks at him. His hands are restless on a napkin. Eduardo realizes that Mark is wearing an actual suit and decent shoes; there’s no pockets in the jacket for him to tuck his hands into. He asks, “How’s the site?”

“It’s - interesting.” Mark’s face shifts into a suspicious expression, like he’s expecting Eduardo to have hidden reasons for asking about Facebook. Eduardo knows Mark hates hidden meanings. He doesn’t have one, though, not this time.

“Good. That’s good,” he replies. “Just because we... had our differences, that doesn’t mean I wanted you to fail.”

Mark’s face changes again, to something inscrutable. Eduardo resists the urge to roll his eyes and refills his wineglass.

“I appreciate that,” Mark says. The words are stiff. Eduardo barks a laugh against the rim of his glass, pressing it against his mouth.There’s an itch between his shoulderblades; it’s probably because of Mark. There’s a good three feet between them, but this is still closer than they’ve been since - since before.

He says, “Have a drink, Mark. You should have a drink,” before he takes another swallow.

“Yeah.”

Mark gets up and goes to the bar. Eduardo congratulates himself on finding a non-awkward way for Mark to be able to leave their stilted conversation, and thus Eduardo’s company, without having to actually extricate himself from it.

He watches the crowd for a moment, sipping the wine. Dustin is twirling Cari around the dancefloor in huge circles. He can see Chris doing some sort of jitterbug with one of the bridesmaids. No one is paying any attention to him or, it seems, to Mark. Eduardo settles back in his chair, figuring he’ll stay another half-hour or so, then grab a taxi back to his hotel.

Then Mark returns, cradling a beer and two shot glasses full of a clear liquor. He sets one of them down in front of Eduardo.

Eduardo thanks him, partly because he’s been raised to be polite, but more because he doesn’t know what else to say. The shot turns out to be vodka. He puts the empty glass back on the table. Then he says, “You know, that was supposed to be your opportunity to get away from me.”

Mark downs his shot and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t looking to. Unless - unless you’d like me to leave.”

Part of Eduardo wants to say _no, stay_ , to reassure Mark like he used to do back in Boston. And part of him, a smaller part, wants to tell Mark to fuck off. Instead, he murmurs, “I honestly don’t care either way.”

Mark doesn’t respond, and they sit drinking in silence while the DJ plays Shania Twain, the Chicken Dance, and Whitney Houston. In that order. _Those were horrible musical choices,_ Eduardo thinks to himself. Then he says it out loud.

Mark glances at him. His hand is cupped protectively around the beer glass. “Yes. Although the people doing the Chicken Dance looked like they were having a modicum of fun.” He shudders at this, though Eduardo can’t tell if the shudder is supposed to go with dancing in general, the Chicken Dance in particular, or the idea of _fun_.

“Do you have fun any more, Mark?” he asks.

“Not really.” There’s a pause. “Do you?”

“Sure,” Eduardo says easily; he’s not lying. Why this whole conversation is making his chest hurt, he doesn’t know.

They’re quiet another three songs. Normally - before - Mark’s silence wouldn’t have bothered him, but now it’s like Eduardo is waiting for the other shoe to drop, or maybe the hammer to fall. Then he queries, for something to say, “So how many people here work for you?”

“Half.” Mark responds immediately, without glancing around the room. Most people would look around the room first, even if they knew the number. Then he amends, “Well, some of them used to work for Facebook but don’t anymore. Most of the rest are Dustin’s family, and Cari’s family and friends. Those kinds of people.”

A moment later he adds, “And you.”

“And me,” Eduardo sighs.

When the DJ starts to play “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life”, Eduardo excuses himself to use the bathroom. When he comes back to the table, Mark is gone, only the empty glasses signifying he was ever even there.

*

 _(no subject)_  
Mark Zuckerberg [mark@zuckerberg.com]  
Sent: Mon 08/03/09 11:47 PM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_Is it too late to say I’m sorry? Personally sorry, I mean._

_MZ_

*

 _hey_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Mon 08/03/09 11:53 PM  
To: ‘d.moskovitz@asana.com’

_Is Mark going around apologizing to everyone?_

_\- Eduardo_

_*_

_RE: hey_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Tues 08/04/09 9:45 AM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_not that I know of? btw, thanks for flying in for the wedding, it really was good to see you - sorry you couldn’t stay longer. next shareholders’, right? ha!_

*

 _RE:_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Wed 08/05/09 3:43 PM  
To: ‘Mark Zuckerberg’

_are you saying you’re sorry?_

*

 _RE:_  
Mark Zuckerberg [mark@zuckerberg.com]  
Sent: Wed 08/05/09 5:21 PM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_650-218-1598_

*

 _Contact: Mark (650-218-1598)_  
Me: I’m not actually going to call you.  
Sent August 05, 6:12 PM

*

 __ **Mark (650-218-1598)**  
Mark: That’s not how I meant it  & yes, i’m saying i’m sorry.  
Sent August 05, 6:14 PM  
Mark: are u coming to the meeting next month ?  
Sent August 05, 6:27 PM

*

_[You saved a draft of this email at 1:33 AM.]_

_(no subject)_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Sat 08/08/09 2:58 AM  
To: ‘Mark Zuckerberg’

_I was going to text this but it got too long - really, you’re apologizing? Now? You know, there were times in college that I didn’t understand the way your mind worked, but I could overlook it. I did overlook it. But then you fucking fired me from a company I had a legitimate stake in. Did you even read the settlement? We’re not supposed to talk about the circumstances surrounding the lawsuit, and I think you trying to apologize - for what? being a douchebag? - counts as talking about the circumstances. Technically I could take you to court for even contacting me in the first place._

_I’m not going to do that, but you should know. And as for you saying you’re sorry - I’ve accepted how things are._

The version he sends is a lot less angry than what he had started out with.

*

 __ **Mark (650-218-1598)**  
I understand  
Sent August 08, 9:00 AM

*

Eduardo RSVPs ‘yes’ to the shareholders’ meeting invitation and books a flight.

 _I understand_ had not been the reply he’d been expecting from Mark. He hadn’t been expecting any reply at all, knowing how Mark’s attention span functioned. All things considered, it had been a longer correspondence than he’d anticipated.

He doesn’t specifically tell Mark that he’s coming, but he’s sure that the RSVP will get around the office. This is the first meeting since the settlement, the first meeting he’ll be attending at corporate headquarters in years. Even just thinking _corporate headquarters_ is weird. The last time he’d been around, Facebook had been a single floor of one building.

What he truly doesn’t expect is for Mark to be standing in the baggage claim at SFO in his hoodie and flip-flops, looking like he’s waiting for Eduardo. Doesn’t expect him to say “Hey, man,” like it’s 2003 again and they’re meeting up to get burgers in the dining hall.

“Hey.”

“Do you need a lift to your hotel? I’m sure you’re tired. My car’s out in the lot, I can give you a ride.” Mark bounces slightly on his toes. He doesn’t meet Eduardo’s gaze.

“Sure.”

Mark leads him to a normal-looking Acura, like he’s not a billionaire who could be behind the wheel of a Maserati. He drives Eduardo to the Westin without asking if it’s correct. He pulls up in the turnaround and brakes, but doesn’t park. “See you tomorrow,” he says.

The question leaves Eduardo’s mouth before he even thinks about what he’s saying. “You want to come in for a drink? I’m sure there’s a bar.”

“I shouldn’t -” Mark stops himself. “Yeah, okay.”

Eduardo shuts the car door and goes into the hotel. When he’s finished checking in, he turns to see Mark standing in the lobby with his hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t project as much awkwardness as Eduardo would expect. Instead he’s standing there like he belongs in an expensive hotel despite his clothes, watching people come and go, observing.

For a moment, Eduardo wonders if Mark even knows that probably seventy-five percent of the people who walk past him are on Facebook.

Then he laughs at himself and stops wondering, because there’s no doubt Mark knows that.

“What’s so funny?” Mark asks, raising his eyebrows.

“You.”

“Did you want to put your bag in your room? I can wait in the bar.” He shifts his shoulders in the direction of the lounge.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Eduardo finds his room on the fifth floor and slings his overnight bag and his laptop onto the bed. He looks at himself in the mirror - wrinkled and rumpled from the long flight. He’d slept intermittently, but it had been fitful, and eventually he’d given up and gotten as much work done as he could without internet access.

“What did we do before the internet, huh?” he asks his reflection.

One drink, and then he’ll sleep it all off.

*

Two and a half drinks later, they’re still sitting at a table in the lounge and Eduardo is half asleep and half buzzed, and he thinks to himself _this can’t end well_. They’d managed a conversation about the projects Eduardo is financing in Singapore, and Eduardo has to admit that it is sort of funny that he’d gone to Singapore to get away from Facebook only to end up a VC to young programmers writing code - for games meant to be played on Facebook.

Now Mark is swirling his drink around in the heavy crystal glass. “I miss you,” he says out of nowhere.

“Were we ever really friends?” Eduardo asks quietly, more to his Ketel One than to Mark.

“You mean, were you just someone I got money from.”

“Was I?”

“No. No, Wardo.” Mark shakes his head. He puts his glass down and leans forward. His eyes are open wider than Eduardo has seen them in years, but he knows he shouldn’t read too much into that. It might just be because it’s sort of dim in the room.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore,” Eduardo murmurs.

Mark’s throat works as he swallows. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

“I want you to be a _person_ , Mark.” He drains what’s left in his glass. “I need to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He leaves Mark sitting alone at the table, like how he’d left Mark sitting alone in the law firm’s conference room, only this time they’re much less sober. He’s not sure if it’s an improvement.

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 7:37 AM  
To: DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]

_Here I am in sunny Palo Alto. Might still change my mind about the meeting, though._

_Saw Mark. He’s - well, he’s Mark._

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 8:01 AM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_Yeah._

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 8:15 AM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_He’s different, though - he’s not who we were in college. I think he cares more about people, even if he’s still complete shit at showing it. He’s still Mark, but - a different sort of Mark._

Eduardo’s not sure what to make of that one.

*

He chickens out on going the shareholders’ meeting and gets a spinach and feta omelet and toast in the hotel restaurant instead. His phone buzzes as the waitress slides the bill onto the table. It’s an email from Dustin, admonishing him for spending fifteen hundred dollars on a plane ticket and then not going to the meeting. But it’s punctuated with smiley faces, so he knows Dustin’s not actually mad.

He writes back that he’s thinking of staying in town for a while, so he’ll probably be around if Dustin wants to meet up for dinner or something. Then he finishes his coffee, pays the bill, and goes up to his room to spend a few hours online checking in with his investments. But the time difference is excruciating, so he doesn’t get much done.

At noon, the room phone rings. “Mr. Saverin, this is the front desk. I’m sorry to disturb you. There is a Mr. Zuckerberg here requesting your room number?”

A beat. Then he says, “Yeah, fine. Send him up.”

He opens the door so Mark doesn’t have to knock and goes back to his laptop.

Mark’s got a bottle of Mountain Dew in his hand, and he uses it to swat at Eduardo’s ankle. “You skipped the meeting.”

“I did.”

“It was boring without you.”

Eduardo glances up from the screen and gives him a querying look. Mark shrugs, that weird jerky movement he does. That hasn’t changed.

“It’s not like I get an actual vote,” Eduardo says, taking a guess at what Mark’s expression means. He shuts down his laptop and closes it. “Shares, but no vote.”

Mark tilts his head.“You don’t sound like that bothers you.”

“It doesn’t. Not anymore. You can sit down, you know.”

Mark sinks down onto the edge of the huge bed. He looks at his hands for a few seconds. “Wardo, how many times do you need to hear me say I’m sorry before you believe it?”

Eduardo shakes his head. “Mark, I don’t-”

“Because I will.”

That’s just out of character. “ _Mark._ ”

Mark looks - that’s a pained expression on Mark’s face, a look that Eduardo hasn’t seen in years.

“Let it go,” Eduardo orders, if only to make his mouth move so that his expression doesn’t mirror Mark’s.

Mark crawls up the bed and into Eduardo’s space, managing to be both deliberate and hesitant at the same time. Eduardo doesn’t get how he manages to do that.

He remembers how long it had taken him to decide to sue, how many lawyers he’d interviewed before settling with Gretchen. None of them had seemed to even care about the fact that he and Mark were friends longer than they’d been enemies, at least at that point. He thought he’d done a good job of burying his feelings towards Mark under the avalanche of complaints and demurrers and Gretchen’s strict instructions that he not have any further contact with anyone at Facebook.

And now Mark is here, inches away, a complete look of confusion on his face.

Eduardo closes his eyes and curls his hands in Mark’s worn GAP hoodie. It’s not the same one he used to have, but it’s close. The material is soft between his fingers. He remembers Boston and all his failed attempts to get Mark to dress like an adult, the memories flickering like movies behind his eyelids. He swallows hard. “Does anyone else even know what you look like when you hurt? I miss you, you fucking asshole. I miss how you were before all of this.”

He means _before Facebook_ , and when Mark says hurriedly, “I have a huge house and no one’s there taking up space but me, so if you’re not flying back to Singapore today, you should definitely come stay with me,” Eduardo thinks maybe he gets it.

So just like always, Eduardo agrees.

*

Mark’s house isn’t a McMansion, but he’s right, it’s more room than one guy needs. There are three spare bedrooms he says he never even goes into, and only one of them has an actual bed. Eduardo leaves his bag in that one.

The appliances are all new and shiny, untouched. Only the living room looks like Mark spends any time there - a laptop and a netbook are both open on a coffee table, surrounded by papers. There’s a whiteboard propped up against the side of the couch. The widescreen television is mounted on the wall above a console that’s probably hiding other electronics. A pile of DVDs sits on top of it, mostly things that he remembers Mark liking.

“You want a beer?”

Eduardo glances at his watch, recalibrated for California. “It’s one in the afternoon.”

“I could... Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Mostly he wants to see if Mark even knows how to work the coffeemaker, expecting him to realize only after pouring the water into the reservoir that he doesn’t have any coffee at all, or that he never bought filters or something. But Mark loads the machine quickly and efficiently, and the scent of fresh coffee is filling the kitchen in minutes.

“You don’t have to go back to the office?” Eduardo asks.

“I’ve taken two days off this year,” Mark replies, “and usually I’m in the office on Saturdays. So no, I don’t have to go back. When are you going back to Singapore?”

“Let me rephrase - how long are you going to last before you need to check in?”

“Another hour, maybe.”

“My original plan was to go back tomorrow.”

“And now?”

Eduardo shrugs. “It’s, uh - a little up in the air.”

Mark pushes a mug of coffee towards him across the stainless steel top of the island. Slowly enough that it doesn’t slosh out, but Eduardo still watches the steaming liquid go back and forth against the opposite walls of the mug for a moment.

He wonders how many people Mark’s made coffee for.

“What happened to Sean?” he asks suddenly.

“He still owns seven percent of the company.”

“That wasn’t my question.” He sits in one of the tall-backed bar chairs placed on one side of the island, where there’s an alcove for people to put their knees. It’s not like he hasn’t seen this on the internet, but he wants to hear it from Mark’s mouth.

Mark stays standing, his hands flat on the countertop even though he looks like he wants to shove them into his pockets. Eduardo has the fleeting urge to wrap his fingers around Mark’s wrists so that he can’t.

He ignores the impulse.

Mark takes a deep breath and says, “Peter asked him to leave.”

“Because of the drugs?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Something inside of Eduardo twists gleefully in satisfaction. Briefly, he thinks about saying _that’s too bad_ and telling Mark that he’d never actually hated Sean. But that would be a lie. He’d spent the better part of two years hating Sean, from that first dinner until he’d made himself just - let go of it.

“He was good for the company. When he was thinking about the company, I mean,” Mark says. “I never understood what your problem with him was.” His voice is wondering, the tone he adapts when he’s talking out loud more to work something out than expecting an answer, so Eduardo doesn’t say anything. He drinks some more coffee.

Then Mark’s eyes snap to him and his expression turns expectant.

“I thought I was pretty clear about it,” Eduardo murmurs. “Both at the time and during the depositions.”

“Can I show you something?” Mark doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and walks out of the kitchen with his hands sliding into the hoodie’s pockets, and Eduardo hops off the chair and follows him.

In the middle of an empty hall, Mark stops. “You still do it.”

“Do what?” He glances at the blank walls. “What did you want to show me?”

Mark opens a door and holds on to the doorknob, gesturing for Eduardo to go in. It’s an office, with a large desk covered in stacks of papers, clipped and rubber-banded together. “What’s this?”

“Deposition transcripts.”

“Deposition... from what?” He crosses to the desk and looks down at the top sheet on the desk. Part of it is highlighted.

 _Counsel: What happened then?_  
_Plaintiff: We watched the site traffic for a while. Then I suggested to Mark that he take the site down before we got caught._  
_Counsel: What was Mr. Zuckerberg’s response?_  
_Plaintiff: He said no._  
_Counsel: And did you argue this with him?_  
_Plaintiff: No, of course I didn’t argue it with him. He kept watching the statistics and I checked emails on my phone._  
_Counsel: And then?_  
_Plaintiff: And then the network crashed._

“Ours,” Mark says, and Eduardo looks up. Mark’s still hanging on to the doorknob with one hand.

“I can see that - but why?”

“I thought maybe I’d missed something.”

Eduardo flips some pages.

 _Counsel: And how did you respond to that?_  
_Plaintiff: I agreed with him, like I always did._  
_Counsel: Why?_  
_Plaintiff: Because it was easier. You have to understand, it was so much easier to agree with Mark than to try and argue with him. Arguing with Mark required facts, statistics, supporting evidence._

He puts the papers back down on the desk and looks straight at Mark. “Why do you want to be friends again?”

“You say that like such a thing is impossible for me to want.”

“Mark. You have ‘eliminating desire’ as an interest on your profile.”

“My Facebook isn’t who I am,” Mark replies, but his mouth is twitching in amusement. It’s a joke at the expense of his own philosophy, and Eduardo laughs and shakes his head.

“Why do you keep trying to convince me you’ve changed?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Eduardo sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right about that.”

“And while we’re on the subject of things I want - I want you to stop doing _that_.”

“You - want me to not touch my hair?” he asks, even more confused. “What kind of request is that?”

Mark shakes his head and takes a step towards him, letting go of the doorknob. “No, Wardo. I want you to stop agreeing with me just because it’s easier.”

Eduardo opens his mouth to reply and realizes he doesn’t know what to say. He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking. Mark stays quiet. Finally, Eduardo says, “Mark. I don’t have the energy to argue with you, not right now. Maybe I should go back to the Westin.”

“No, wait.” Mark holds out his hand, as if he thinks Eduardo’s going to make a break for it. “I need to check in with work, okay, you can do your thing and I’ll be quiet. I won’t try and make you talk to me.”

“Is this a test to see if I’ll agree with you?”

Mark smiles outright. “No.”

“Okay then.”

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 2:28 PM  
To: DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]

_I’m at Mark’s house - I feel sort of like I got conned._

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 2:50 PM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_He does that :-) but at least your plane ticket wasn’t a complete waste... right?_

_Want to get dinner tonight? You can bring Mark. It’ll be all the valley will talk about for daaaaays..._

_RE: Re: hey_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 2:53 PM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo  
cc: ‘Mark Zuckerberg’

_I made reservations for 7pm at Lavanda. Mark knows where it is._

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 2:56 PM  
To: DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]

_I feel like - this is where there should be a joke about how if that was your FB status update, I’d comment with *dislike*._

_Mark says he misses you. See you tonight._

*

 _RE: Re: hey_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 2:59 PM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_He says you’re giving him the silent treatment. you’re not really, right?_

_*_

_jerk_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Thur 08/13/09 3:01 PM  
To: ‘Mark Zuckerberg’

_silent treatment, huh_

*

He knows Mark’s read the email when Mark starts to laugh out loud, pressing a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide. “I guess we’re going out to dinner with Dustin and Cari,” he says, the words punctuated by something that sounds like a cross between a giggle and the hiccups.

“Breathe, man.”

“Were you even getting work done? Or were you just emailing with Dustin?” Mark’s grinning. He’s honest-to-god grinning. He sets his laptop aside.

“Is there a dress code at this restaurant?” Eduardo asks, making it obvious that he’s judging Mark’s shorts-and-hoodie outfit. “It’s August and it’s California, and you’re still wearing a sweatshirt from Old Navy.”

“It’s cold in the house.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t turn the air conditioning up so high.”

“Electronics.”

“Bullshit.”

Mark shrugs, licking his lips. “It’s not like I have to worry about being able to pay the electric bill.”

“You wear it like a shield,” Eduardo says, and a startled expression flashes across Mark’s face. “Is it because I’m here?”

“It’s cold in the house,” Mark repeats stubbornly.

“I’m not cold.” Eduardo’s wearing an all-cotton, non-iron dress shirt from Brooks Brothers - with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows - and non-iron black chinos. He’d rather be wearing shorts in this weather, but he’d dressed for the meeting he’d skipped out on. “Why don’t you just -”

Mark is within arm’s reach, so Eduardo reaches out and unzips his hoodie. It gets stuck part of the way down, so he grabs one side of it so he can wiggle the zipper down the rest of the way. He has to pull hard to get the pin and box apart at the bottom, and it’s obvious that this is totally a $15 piece of shit sweatshirt. The backs of his knuckles skim over the warm fabric of the Adidas t-shirt Mark’s got on underneath. He pushes the hoodie impatiently off Mark’s shoulders, yanks it free of his arms, and throws it over the back of the couch. “There.”

“Feeling better about yourself?”

“Is this all part of your plan to get me to argue with you?”

“Yes.” Mark says it with that odd head movement that used to indicate he couldn’t believe Eduardo had figured him out.

“You’re so weird,” Eduardo breathes. “You’re doing a good job pretending to be just like everybody else, though, when you’re out in the world. But I know better.”

“What else do you think you know?”

Eduardo picks up his laptop again and ignores the question. After a moment, Mark goes back to his own work, but he doesn’t put the hoodie back on.

*

Dustin corners him in the men’s room after dessert. “You got Mark to wear a real shirt and a tie? He didn’t even wear a real shirt and tie to my going-away party. Or my wedding.”

“He wore a real shirt and a suit jacket to your wedding,” Eduardo counters, rinsing his hands. He nudges the tap to off with his elbow and Dustin passes him a wad of paper towels, making a skeptical face.

“But really.”

Eduardo shrugs.

“What did you say to him? It’s like... bizarro Mark,” Dustin continues.

“You’re telling me.”

Back at the table, Mark is eating what’s left of the cheesecake Eduardo had pushed away and listening to Cari talk about Puerta Vallarta. Eduardo slides back into his seat with one hand on the back of Mark’s chair, and leans in to listen to the rest of Cari’s story.

*

Mark puts _Gladiator_ in the player and opens another bottle of wine.

“You ate my cheesecake,” Eduardo says, tipping his head back against the couch.

“You said you were done with it.”

“Maybe I wanted the leftovers.” He watches as Mark’s face falls. “Dude, I’m fucking with you.”

Mark hands him a full glass. They watch Russell Crowe rampage through a forest of Germanic barbarians, and they don’t talk.

Eduardo’s pretty far along the road to being drunk by the middle of the movie, and he’s sure it requires more intentional coordination than necessary to slump against the side of the couch while still keeping what remains of his wine from spilling. Mark is still upright, his own glass on the table barely touched. Or maybe it’s the refill that’s untouched. Eduardo’s not actually sure how much they’ve had.

He feels lazy and sleepy and _unplugged_. He’s not even sure where his cell phone is. It’s sort of nice. It’s not a feeling he’d anticipated having here - sitting on Mark’s couch, drinking Mark’s insanely expensive wine, in Mark’s house in fucking Palo Alto. A place Eduardo had sworn to himself after the lawsuit he’d never go again.

He glances over, expecting to see Mark with his laptop balanced on his knees, but Mark’s attention seems to be focused on the movie, even though he’s seen it a thousand times. He’s still just as buttoned up as he was to go out to dinner, the dress shirt and tie that Eduardo had had to tell him actually did go together.

“Here, Mark,” he murmurs, sitting up again and reaching out, grasping the knot of Mark’s tie with one hand, tugging it downward.

“Oh.” Mark looks down. It’s like he’s forgotten he was even wearing it. He reaches up to undo it and their fingers collide. Mark’s skin is hot and dry. It takes Eduardo a few seconds to realize he should pull back. He drops his hands back down to his lap and looks at the television, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mark slipping the tie from around his neck. It’s flung onto the coffee table, and then Mark undoes the shirt’s top three buttons. His skin is smooth and pale.

He really doesn’t look much older than he did in college.

Eduardo feels a whisper of déjà vu. He shivers. Sometimes he misses the way they used to be so fiercely that it’s painful, like something’s tightening around his chest. They used to have a rhythm. It was mostly Mark taking what Eduardo offered him. But if Mark had something that was more than enough for one, he’d hand Eduardo the other half as if he just expected Eduardo to take it. Huge boxes of homemade baked goods from his mom that no one person could eat before they went stale. Half his breakfast potatoes. One of the two copies of Sea Change he’d gotten for Hanukkah.

He asks, “Shouldn’t you be more tan, living in California?”

“It’s usually dark when I leave the office.”

“Try leaving earlier.”

Mark looks at him like he’s suggested something unfathomable.

Eduardo smiles in reply, and the weight lifts a little. “Like when the sun is still out, Mark.”

A network of winkles forms between Mark’s eyebrows. Eduardo reaches over and presses his thumb against the spot. “Are you drunk?” Mark asks, and Eduardo feels the crease deepen as Mark makes a face at him.

“A little. Are you?”

“A little.”

Eduardo drops his hand. “No one ever talks about how depressing this movie is.”

“But Wardo, Maximus has his revenge,” Mark says in confusion, settling back against the couch, gesturing at the scene. Their arms brush. “It’s an emotionally satisfying ending. Having him kill Commodus and then _survive_ would be over the top. People would like it, but they wouldn’t necessarily believe in it.”

“You’ve put some thought into that.”

“It’s a logical observation, given the movie’s setup. He wants to die and the viewer is supposed to know that all along.”

“Mark, it’s a movie,” Eduardo laughs, setting his hand on Mark’s shoulder and squeezing briefly. This is okay, this is comfortable. Sitting on this ridiculously soft couch and verbally sparring about movies they’ve both seen before, with Mark looking at him like he’s stupid. This sort of thing, Eduardo remembers.

Then he ruins the moment by saying, “I could draw the parallel of you being Commodus to my Maximus.”

“Are you insane? I’d never hit on one of my sisters.”

“That’s _not_ the parallel I was going for.” He knows Mark knows this, and had been trying to distract him from the point.

“You still believe I stabbed you in the back.”

Instead of asking, “That wasn’t what happened?” and giving Mark the room he needs to build an argument, Eduardo says firmly, “You did, Mark. You did stab me in the back. And maybe if you stopped trying to see your way around that, stopped thinking you can convince me you didn’t, we could find some neutral ground, and - and come through this with some civility, maybe even friendship.”

Mark doesn’t say anything, so Eduardo takes a breath and continues, “Maybe there’s something wrong with me, that I still miss being your friend even after you treated me like shit. I still - miss _you_. And I don’t have a fucking clue why.”

Mark is staring at him with the same bearing of shock he’d had when Eduardo smashed his computer in the middle of the office. It’s that startled, deer-in-the-headlights expression that looks so out of place, yet so stupidly attractive on him.

“Sometimes I ask myself how we even got to be friends in the first place,” Eduardo says and yanks Mark close by two handfuls of his shirt, and kisses him.

He expects Mark to flinch, and Mark does. But then he kisses back. His mouth is as warm as the rest of him, and Eduardo thinks maybe he finally understands why Mark never wore a coat in winter, even in the middle of a snowstorm. His brain supplies an image of Mark standing in the living room of his suite, soaked with melting snow and shivering as water dripped from his hair into the shell and curves of his ear.

Then his body reprimands his thoughts for wandering, and he comes back to the present as Mark gasps something into the kiss and pushes Eduardo away. “Wardo, what are you...”

“I don’t know.” He uncurls his fists, lets go of Mark’s shirt. Mark pulls back another inch or two, but only that. He’s still close enough that Eduardo can count the few random freckles on his face. “Sorry.”

Mark blinks. “Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have -”

“Why do you hate Sean?”

Oh, that’s smart, to ask that now. But even with the alcohol and the desire to kiss Mark again buzzing through his veins, Eduardo knows better than to answer. “Why are you asking me that now?”

“I thought you might tell me the truth.”

“There’s no truth,” he scoffs. “Don’t look at me like that, Mark -”

Mark kisses him, cutting off the words with dry lips and sharp teeth, dragging his mouth down Eduardo’s neck and breathing damp over the collar of his shirt. For a moment, Eduardo allows him, but then he grabs Mark’s shoulders and forces him back. “Can’t we have a normal conversation?”

“You kissed me first.” Mark drops backwards to the far end of the couch. Eduardo cups a hand over his mouth and closes his eyes, trying not to do anything else but breathe.

“Eduardo.”

“Don’t.”

Much to his surprise, Mark lets it drop, and turns to shut off the television and pick up his laptop from the coffee table. Eduardo props his feet against the edge and bites at his thumbnail, running it over in his mind. Maybe it’s best if he leaves. Especially since he can no longer remember why he came here in the first place.

Mark doesn’t look up as Eduardo stands, says nothing as he leaves the room and goes up the stairs. It’s not like he’d unpacked. He grabs his bags and the suit jacket he’d left on the bed. It was an expensive suit, and the material is soft under his fingertips.

Mark’s standing at the bottom of the staircase. “You’re leaving,” he says, like it’s not obvious.

“I should, yeah.” As much as he doesn’t think he can stand another seventeen-hour flight, he can’t stand to be around Mark even more. This wasn’t what he’d expected, coming here.

“I can’t say anything to make you not go, is there,” Mark says, clumsily, words more hesitant than Eduardo’s ever heard him before. For some reason, he flashes to Mark saying _Look, a guy who builds a nice chair doesn’t owe money to everyone who has ever built a chair. They came to me with an idea; I had a better one._

“Maybe next time, Mark,” he murmurs. Mark nods, scrambles for his phone, and calls Eduardo a cab.

*

 __ **Mark (650-218-1598)**  
Mark: was your flight ok?  
Sent August 15, 3:11 AM

*

“It was long,” he tells Mark’s voicemail. “And even though I flew first class, it was crowded and noisy for most of the flight, and since I took the next available plane, it was a twenty-hour flight. I just wanted to sleep. I still want to sleep.” He pauses, opening the refrigerator and stooping to see what he’s got to eat. “Look - what happened - let’s just forget about it. All right? We can pretend it never happened.”

Another pause. “I’m going to bed. Please don’t call me.”

*

 __  
Mark Zuckerberg [mark@zuckerberg.com]  
Sent: Fri 08/21/09 2:21 AM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_you have no idea how badly I’d rather forget about it - or maybe you do - but so far I can’t get it out of my head. i can’t think about anything else. i can’t even fucking code._

_thank god for email because there’s no way i could say any of this out loud._

*

 __ **Mark (650-218-1598)**  
Mark: was your flight ok?  
Sent August 15, 3:11 AM  
Me: I hated Sean because he had a control over you that I couldn’t come close to.  
Sent September 1, 4:04 AM  
Me: He OWNED you.  
Sent September 1, 4:06 AM  
Mark: Not like that  
Sent September 1, 4:07 AM  
Mark: I’d let you.  
Sent September 1, 4:08 AM

*

He reads the last message several times, then pretends his hands aren’t shaking as he hits the dial button. Mark answers immediately. “Wardo.”

“Where are you?”

“At work. Where are you?”

“Laying in bed, in my apartment.”

“What time is it?”

“Four in the morning.” Eduardo rolls onto his side and looks out the open window. Lights blink all over the city.

Mark asks, “What’s it like?”

“Four a.m. in Singapore? It’s dark. Well, mostly dark. The sun won’t be up for almost three more hours, but the city never really sleeps. Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because there are at least three people within earshot of where I’m sitting,” Mark’s voice drops to a low whisper, “so I can’t say what I want to you.”

Eduardo shivers. “Mark -”

“I never thought about it until now, you know? Until you kissed me. I don’t know if I never let myself think about it, or it really never crossed my mind, or what - but, Wardo, I - I want to do it again.”

“Mark,” he tries again.

“Do you think you could ever give me another chance?” Mark murmurs.

Eduardo sighs, sliding his body against the smooth sheets. He’s still not entirely awake, but he is sort of turned on. “Just keep talking in that voice and I might give in.”

“Wait, you want to - have phone sex? For real?”

Eduardo wants to do this if Mark does. “Sure.”

“In that case, maybe I should relocate. Did you know there’s no office with an actual, lockable door in this whole place? It’s an entire floor of nothing but desks. And some crap hanging from the ceiling. I’ll call you back - five minutes.”

Eduardo hums in response and the call disconnects. He slides his free hand down over his stomach and into his pajama bottoms, skimming over his cock, which had shown definite interest in Mark’s odd attempt at a bedroom voice. He’s fully hard by the time the phone rings again, flashing Mark’s name. He answers with, “You talk, I’ll jerk off.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Mark replies after a second, like he hadn’t expected Eduardo to say that, “and what should I talk about?”

“Anything. Just talk.”

Mark begins to tell Eduardo about his day, glossing over some parts and extending others, all in a low, slightly rough whisper, pausing his soliloquy every few sentences to ask Eduardo if he’s still touching himself, if it feels good.

“Yeah, feels good,” he replies, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the precum, easing the way a little more. Then he says without thinking, “It would be better with you here.”

“You want me to get on a plane?”

Eduardo groans. “Fuck, yeah.”

“Well, I want you to come. Now, Wardo. Pretend your hand is my hand. Pretend I’m the one jerking your cock.”

Mark trying to talk dirty is way hotter than Eduardo ever expected, and he drops the phone as his orgasm hits, arching up off the bed and moaning Mark’s name.

Then he gropes blindly for the cell again. “Sorry, I dropped the phone,” he whispers.

“You said my name,” Mark says in wonder.

Eduardo laughs, stretching. “Yeah.”

“It’s a...” There’s a pause, like Mark is calculating, or maybe looking something up, “Seventeen hour flight?”

“Depends on where you connect, how long the layovers are. It could be up to thirty-two.”

Mark makes a disgusted noise. “Can’t you just move back here?”

“I came to Singapore to get away from you.”

“To hide.”

“No one cares who I am here,” Eduardo murmurs. He wipes his hand on his pajama pants, then kicks them off and sprawls out on the bed, rubbing his stomach. He’s not sure if he wants to get up or go back to sleep. Probably sleep. “They only care that I have money to invest.”

He can’t tell if Mark’s joking or not when he says, “Maybe I’ll just buy my own plane.”

*

 __ **Mark (650-218-1598)**  
Mark: how do I get to your place?  
Sent September 04, 11:02 PM

*

Mark looks downright exhausted when Eduardo opens the door. There are deep shadows under his eyes and the skin looks tight over his cheekbones. “You sleep on the plane at all?” Eduardo asks, moving out of the way and letting Mark inside.

“Kids. Screaming. For hours,” Mark groans, setting his bags down and rubbing his face.

“All right. C’mon.” He curves his fingers around Mark’s arm and draws him into the bedroom. “Here, lay down.”

Mark crawls onto the bed without argument and presses his face into the pillow. He shakes his feet until his flip-flops drop off onto the floor. “You coming?”

“In a minute,” Eduardo chuckles, kicking Mark’s shoes out of the way.

In the kitchen, he puts away the things for the drink he’d been about to make. Then he goes back into the bedroom. Mark appears to be asleep. Eduardo takes off his shirt and pants, and climbs onto the bed next to him.

“You should come back to California,” Mark mumbles.

“I thought you were asleep.”

Mark turns over and looks at him through half-open eyes. He repeats, “You should come back to California,” and lays his hand on Eduardo’s chest.

Eduardo breathes in and out, watches Mark’s hand rise and fall. “I was never really... In California.”

“Do you remember when we first expanded? How I only said Yale and Columbia, and you insisted on Stanford?”

“You can’t say ‘we’, Mark. I’m not part of the company any more.”

“You sort of are. You could be, for real.”

“That’s sweet,” Eduardo says dryly, “but really.”

“You want to just - do this.”

“We haven’t done anything.” He puts his hand over Mark’s, traces his knuckles. “You should sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

Mark nods and turns back onto his side. Eduardo slides his arm carefully over Mark’s waist, then settles his head against Mark’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

*

 _um?_  
DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]  
Sent: Fri 09/04/09 8:00 PM  
To: Saverin, Eduardo

_you don’t happen to know where Mark went?_

*

 _RE: um?_  
Saverin, Eduardo  
Sent: Sat 09/05/09 8:56 AM  
To: DMSKVTZ [therealmoskovitz@gmail.com]

_in my room, sleeping off his twenty-some hour flight across the Pacific_

*

“Wardo?” he hears Mark call, just before eleven.

“I’m in the other room!” Eduardo yells back as he logs out of his bank website, which has just displayed the ridiculous amount of money in his account. Mark’s money, really. He’s not sure if it feels worse than it should, or if it should feel worse than it does. He glances over his shoulder to see Mark shuffle in, yawning. “Hey, man.”

“Is there coffee?”

“Yeah, and some Mountain Dew in the fridge.”

He sets his laptop aside as Mark sits down, popping the tab on a can of the soda. Mark’s hair is a mess, the collar of his t-shirt is stretched out, and there’s a crust of sleep in the corner of one eye. He rubs it away with the heel of his hand.

“So,” Eduardo says. “Do you need to check in with work?”

Mark shakes his head. “No.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “I left Sheryl in charge. It should be fine. Do you want to go to Prineville with me next week?”

“Prineville? I don’t even know where that is.”

“It’s in Oregon. We’re scouting sites for new data centers.”

Eduardo scoffs and shakes his head. “Mark, I can’t just drop everything and go to Oregon with you. I have a life here, a business, investments to look after. Spending a weekend someplace - fine, that’s one thing. But I can’t be flying all over the world just because you want me to. Especially if there’s going to be press.”

Mark gives him a look that Eduardo can only interpret as wounded.

“If you’re trying to bring me back into the fold - I appreciate the sentiment, I think,” he continues, struggling to keep his voice as even as possible. “But I have to say no. Come on, you know I came here to avoid the press, so that I could disappear.”

“Wardo -”

“It’s too early for this.” He grabs his coffee from the table.

“Is it - wrong of me to feel the way I do?” Mark’s eyes are wide, his expression open and earnest, and Eduardo is reminded yet again of Boston.

Instead of answering, he starts, “If you could go back...”

“Don’t ask me that,” Mark murmurs. “Please.”

“You’d dump me for Facebook all over again,” Eduardo laughs. He shakes his head, still laughing. “It shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Jesus, Mark, you dumped me for a website.”

“Come to Oregon with me.”

“Am I going to get left behind again if I don’t?”

“Come to Oregon with me,” Mark repeats, his voice soft.

“No.”

Mark is quiet for a moment, drinking his soda. Then he asks, “What’s halfway between here and SFO?”

Eduardo grabs his computer and pulls up a map. “Nothing. The Pacific.”

Mark spins the laptop around. “Japan. Tokyo.”

“We’d still be flying...” he pauses to think, “something like ten hours each.”

Mark just looks at him and slurps a drink from the can.

“Come on, Mark, am I worth that to you?” Eduardo asks softly. He picks the computer up from Mark’s knees and puts it back on the table. Then he takes the soda away from Mark. “Hey.”

“I left you behind once before.” Mark curls his fingers in the bottom of Eduardo’s worn Harvard Investment Club t-shirt. “And I’ve been trying to get you back ever since. Please don’t make me beg.”

Eduardo shakes his head. “I’m not worth that to you.”

“You are.”

“If it came down to me or Facebook - again - you’d choose Facebook. Again.”

“But this time you’d at least know that going in,” Mark replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he couldn’t believe Eduardo hadn’t known that last time.

“You can’t even lie to make me feel better,” Eduardo breathes. “You can’t even lie if it means you’ll get laid.”

He leans back against the arm of the couch and looks at Mark, who seems speechless for once.

“Well?”

Mark pulls on his shirt, and ducks in to kiss him. Eduardo cups the back of his neck, shivering only slightly as Mark’s hands skim over his hips and thighs. He threads his fingers through Mark’s hair.

“Okay, maybe not Oregon,” Mark whispers against his mouth. “But I’m in for Tokyo. Seriously, Wardo. I’m in.”

“Shut up, for once in your life,” Eduardo orders, and kisses him again.

*

He doesn’t do Oregon, but they meet in Tokyo three weekends later, in an opulent hotel suite. The front desk informs him that Mark has already checked in. When Eduardo swipes his keycard and wanders through the rooms, he finds Mark in the huge stone Jacuzzi. He’s completely submerged, just a shape beneath the water, air bubbles rising every other second. He surfaces as Eduardo watches. He looks more unfocused than Eduardo’s ever seen.

“Hey, man.”

“Wardo.” Mark blinks slowly, his gaze traveling over Eduardo leaning in the bathroom doorway. They don’t do anything but look at each other for a long time. Then Mark says, “This is big enough for two.”

The Eduardo of old, the one who hadn’t decided to challenge everything Mark said, would have stripped off his clothes and gotten in the tub. Instead, as he starts to unbutton his shirt, tugging it from the waist of his slacks, he says, “Come let me fuck you.”

Then he turns and goes into the bedroom without waiting to see if Mark will follow.

Mark appears in the room a minute later, dripping all over the plush carpeting, a towel he seems to have forgotten the purpose of clutched in one fist. Eduardo smiles at him, peeling off his boxer briefs and kicking them away.

“You got lube through airport security?” Mark asks finally, his gaze flicking to the bottle on the bed.

“I stopped at a drugstore on my way here.” He walks over to Mark and takes the towel from him. Then he slides his hands down over Mark’s wet chest and belly, leaning in to bite at the curve of his jaw. Mark’s whole body twitches. His hands flutter upward and land on Eduardo’s shoulders.

Eduardo feels Mark press damp fingerprints onto his skin. Then he turns them around and shoves Mark down onto the striped comforter. “I got tested last week,” he announces. “I’m clean. Are you?”

Mark nods. He moves backwards over the bed, holding himself up on his elbows.

Eduardo drops between Mark’s knees, pushing his legs further apart. His skin is damp in places and slick in others, probably from some complimentary bath oil he’d dumped into the tub. Or maybe he just hadn’t rinsed off the soap. His hair wets the pillow when his head thunks into it as Eduardo cups his balls.

Eduardo’s so hard that it aches; he can feel the blood pulsing in his cock, eager to fuck Mark into oblivion. He gropes for the bottle of lube with his left hand and flicks it open, rubs the fingers of his right hand together to spread it around.

Mark tenses at the first touch. Eduardo presses his mouth, open, to the inside of Mark’s thigh and sucks. He keeps rubbing his fingers over Mark’s asshole until, with a sigh, Mark relaxes. Eduardo pushes two fingers in and Mark groans, arching up off the bed a little.

He waits, listening for changes in Mark’s breathing. Eduardo has done this before, but he’s not sure about Mark.

There’s a hitch, and then a quiet whine, and Mark mumbles his name. Eduardo mouths the underside of Mark’s cock, feels Mark clench around his working fingers. “Wardo,” Mark gasps again.

Eduardo removes his mouth and his hand, crawls up to bite at the soft, pale skin on the inside of Mark’s upper arm, and then the sharper place of Mark’s collarbone. “Okay?” he whispers, and Mark nods furiously. Eduardo steadies his cock, and sinks into Mark’s body. There’s a noise he knows can’t be Mark, because Mark’s biting his lips from red to pressure-white to red again, so it must be his own voice.

“You okay?” he asks again.

Mark shifts, like the question isn’t worth an answer. Eduardo presses his forehead into Mark’s neck, mouths at the skin there. He tastes soap and salt, then starts to move.

“Come back to California,” Mark says, words slurred and strung together. His fingers dig into Eduardo’s upper arms as Eduardo thrusts harder.

“No,” he replies. He drags Mark’s hand down between them, getting Mark to touch his own cock, then presses his own hand to the back of Mark’s thigh and pushes Mark’s leg higher.

Mark makes a guttural sound. Eduardo’s hands slip a little on the sheets. He squeezes his eyes shut, and for the immediate future, does his best to forget all their history.

*

At the end of the weekend, it’s his flight that leaves first, in the middle of the night. He doesn’t tell Mark he’s going, doesn’t make an attempt to say goodbye. He just fastens his shirt cuffs around his wrists again and goes.

His cell buzzes, once, twice, three times in rapid succession as he’s waiting to board the plane. Eduardo slips it from his pocket.

 __ **Mark (650-218-1598)**  
Mark: maybe i shouldnt ask so you cant argue but  
Sent September 28, 1:56 AM  
Mark: do you want to do this again?  
Sent September 28, 1:57 AM  
Mark: why is there a bruise on the inside of my thigh?  
Sent September 28, 1:58 AM

Eduardo laughs, rubbing a hand over his face and blocking out the bright lights of the airport with his palm for a few seconds. Above the desk, the sign begins to flash _boarding now_ , and he hears the PA key up. “Attention in the terminal. Delta flight 281 to Singapore will begin boarding shortly. First class ticket-holders, please queue.”

 _my life’s a lot more interesting since I started arguing w/ you_ , he writes back, and _we’ll figure something out_. Then he powers down his phone, slips it into his bag, stands up to join the line.


End file.
